I moved to Florida in the middle of my senior year of high school. As if that isn’t fucked up enough for any 17 year old introvert to go through, I had to move or stay with my father whom I had never lived with a day in my life. That was my ONLY option. Clearly, I decided to move to Florida with my mother. That being said, I packed up my life and left all of my family and friends behind in Ohio while I moved to the most miserable, god-awful hot, elderly-filled cesspool of a town called Palm Coast, Florida. At first, the novelty of moving to Florida was really exciting. I was going to get to live an hour away from Disney World! I could go to the beach any day I wanted to! No more shoveling snow! No more de-icing the car before going to work or school! Flip flops year round! Spring Break! It was going to be SO AWESOME! And it was. For about six months. Now I’ve been in Florida for about 14 years, and let me tell you, that novelty has worn out FAST.
First of all, there is NOTHING TO DO HERE other than go to Wal-Mart or the beach. I haven’t been to the beach more than three times in the past 5 years. The sand is annoying, it takes you for-fucking-ever to get everything together to go, then, when you actually do get there, get all set up with your towels, sunscreen, cooler, beach toys, etc, etc, etc, you can only stand to scorch yourself for about an hour before you are sweating your ass off. You’re about half-blinded by the sunscreen dripping into your eyes from the sweat. That feels AMAZING! You have sand stuck in places you didn’t know existed on your body, and your skin feels like a red-hot brillo pad. The beach here SUCKS. I hate it. I never want to go. It’s nice to look at from some of the beachside restaurants but I absolutely do not want to set foot on it in any way, shape or form.
Don’t even get me started on our Wal-Mart. Ok, too late. I got myself started on it. Wal-Mart is probably going to sue me over this blog post, but oh well. Our Wal-Mart here is enough to make you want to commit suicide right next to the Sam’s Choice underwear hanging on the clearance rack. In fact, many people in this town have actually committed suicide in the parking lot of our Wal-Mart. It’s that fucking bad, people. It doesn’t matter what time of day you go to our Wal-Mart, there are no less than 20 elderly couples lollygagging through the aisles like they have no other place to be. And while I love the elderly dearly, I hate every last one of them when I’m trying to get through the store with my three children in under three hours without popping at least three Xanax and opening up a Coors Light as I shop. Ok, I’ve never actually done that, but I’VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT! I never thought I was capable of murder until I started shopping at our Wal-Mart. That place makes me so enraged that I could easily see myself strangling someone with a pair of White Stag jogging pants. If these people drive their cars the way they drive their carts through the aisles there, God help us all. I don’t think I’ve ever been in that store where I wasn’t approached by someone to help them with something. I’m all for helping the elderly, but what about me trying to corral three kids in a shopping cart as I struggle to make sure I get the right kind of laundry detergent my coupon is for screams “Ask me for help!” when clearly, I am the one who is in need of help. Mentally and physically. Thank God my kids are somewhat behaved in public. Then again, maybe if I teach them to scream and knock shit over, people wouldn’t bother me as I try to get my damn Steak-Ums and get out of the store before I do kill myself or someone else. And please, for the love of all things, WHY, WHYYYY are there 50 check out lanes if you are only going to have 4 of them open at a time for a store as big as the state of Rhode Island? WHY? I don’t expect all 50 of them to be open, no, but then WHY HAVE THEM? I wait in line at least 30 minutes every time I check out there. And the employees that work there? Oh. My. God. Every last one of them looks like their dog just died or that they just showed up for work after an all-night drinking and drug bender. Please tell me that ours isn’t the only Wal-Mart like this. I know it can’t be. I’m sure it’s just that much worse for me because of the kind of people that live in this town. It’s AWFUL. Sure, I could shop somewhere else, but my only other option is the grocery chains, and if I need to get anything other than food, which 99% of the time I do, it’s a lot cheaper to get it at Wal-Mart than it is at the grocery store. I refuse to pay $2.49 for my can of White Rain hair spray when I know it’s $0.97 at Wal-Mart. Bitch, please. You know you still use that shit, too. Don’t judge me.
Did I mention the job market here is horrendous? This county alone has been stuck at a 14% unemployment rate for as long as I can remember. That’s probably because we only have banks, mattress stores, doctor’s offices and pharmacies here. And the one small company that I work for and have for the past eleven years. I want out. Desperately. But there’s nowhere else to work around here unless I’m willing to commute at minimum, 60 miles one way to work for anyone paying decently. This is a retirement community for a reason. And while I may be a fat, lazy bitch most of the time, I am still a Mom of three and it would be nice to be able to bring in a decent income to actually be able to afford to do something with them outside of the house once in a while. Don’t even say “Take them to the beach” or I will cut you, I swear to God. So I’m stuck at this terrible meaningless job for the rest of eternity unless I miraculously get a job offer somewhere else. And I’m trying. REALLY HARD. I hope my boss doesn’t read this.
I am so outta here the first chance I get. They don’t call it God’s waiting room for no reason. People come here to die, and I’m ready to start living! The minute I have the opportunity to go, I’m gone. If anyone tries to sell you on moving to this place, tell them they are no longer your friend because any true friend wouldn’t want you to suffer this life. So, in the words of Jerry Maguire, I’m leaving… Who’s coming with me?